The Saddest of Smiles
by Hadisia
Summary: Sideshow Bob apologizes to Bart for all that he's done, but how do you say you're sorry for being insane? **End note**
1. Nothing I Can Say, Nothing I Can Do

A gentle breeze wafted into the room, rustling the young boy's silvery- blonde hair and his tiny, button nose. His twitched slightly as he shifted, causing the light green blanket covering him to slide and tangle about his limbs.  
  
A tall shadow fell over the sleeping lad, from which the pale hands of an adult reached forward and, with much caution, removed the blanket from the jumble and spread it back over the child.  
  
For a few minutes, the shadow's origin, a tall, thin man with a bright shock of red hair, could only stand there, watching as the boy before him slept peacefully, unaware of the second presence in the room.  
  
Finally, the man sat down on the bed, slowly, so as not to wake the child before him. He rested his elbows upon his knees and, with a sigh, placed his head in his palms, rubbing his temples.  
  
"I don't quite know what to say." His voice, normally soft and soothing like the tiny laps and waves of the ocean, shook faintly, and Robert Terwilliger took a moment to try and compose to himself.  
  
"I suppose I should start with I'm sorry…God, but am I ever sorry. I could have killed you so many times…I know I've at least traumatized you to a certain point. And…and I'm sorry for it. Oh, so very sorry for it…  
  
"You know, Bart…you're a very bright child. You may be the worst student in your class, but…you have intelligence. It's not your fault that you can't focus and control all your energy and stay on track…you truly are a genius. I've seen it numerous times, and I've thought about it a lot. I think about you a lot. Did you know that? Did you know that almost all of the time, I'm thinking about you in some way?"  
  
He paused.  
  
"It…it used to be…used to be evil thoughts. Murderous thoughts. Insane thoughts. But now…now…ever since that incident at the dam…it's been different. When I saw you falling, Bart, I truly thought you were going to die. And…I was afraid. Afraid of losing you…despite all of what you've done and had done to you, you're still innocent. So very innocent. Others may not know it – even you yourself – but I do. I have a sixth sense when it comes to these sorts of things…dreams. You have dreams, and aspirations, and goals, and…and as I saw you falling…I could feel them slipping away with every inch you fell. And with every dream you lost…my heart broke just a little more.  
  
"That's why I saved you. I had to. You were so scared, and confused, and…it was my fault you were even there…I couldn't just stand by and watch you fall. So I acted on an impulse.  
  
"And I saved you. I swung down, and against the odds, I caught you. You almost slipped, but…you've got a good, quick mind on you. I was just so relieved that you were safe…and then…my brother…  
  
"Please, don't blame Cecil. His mind…he just cracked that day. Insane. He hasn't cried since he was five. And he's had many reasons to do so his whole life. He just…just cracked. It wasn't his fault."  
  
Robert gave another sigh before looking at the boy. He hesitated, then slowly, tentatively, reached out a hand and swept back some stray locks of hair from the child's face, knuckles brushing gently of Bart's cheek. He watched the boy for a few moments before gently running his hand through the deceptive spikes, which were surprisingly baby soft.  
  
"I…I know that this…it's a poor excuse. But you need to know, you need to be told…you deserve it. I owe you. Bart, I'm about to tell you something I haven't told anyone since…since…well, I honestly don't know. I've always done my best to avoid the subject at all…you're one of the few people to know what I'm about to tell you. Bart…I…"  
  
Robert's voice trailed off, and he traced a random pattern on the boy's face with a finger.  
  
"I…I'm manic depressive. I have Bipolar Disorder…I was diagnosed when I was 7-, maybe 8-years-old. I have it pretty badly, too…I have the rapid cycling version. One of the 20% of all manic depressives whose phases can change one every three years and once every three weeks. It's all very random…"  
  
The redhead was silent, then, watching Bart sleep as Robert caressed his hair, smoothing back the wild spikes, gently running his thumb over temples.  
  
"I stopped taking my medication a few years ago, a few weeks after I started working for Kr…for Herschel. I woke up late one morning, forgot to take my medication – Lithium, 20 or 25 milligrams, maybe 30 – and…  
  
"I was in my manic phase. After the show, Herschel came right over to me and asked me, what the hell was I doing different, whatever it was I should keep it up, it was as funny as…he made a lurid metaphor then, one I'm not going to repeat. You'll hear enough filthy language in junior and senior high.  
  
"At any rate, I decided, well, if it makes the children laugh. I love that sound, children's laughter. That's why I took and kept that job for so long…I wanted to be a doctor, you know. That's what I was going to do after my brother's audition, I was going to go to an interview at Springfield General. But the prospect of making children laugh, making children happy…I was young and foolish and stupid. Still am, too."  
  
He gave way to a small grin as his lithe fingers played about with Bart's hair.  
  
"I guess I'll never change. I can try and try and try, but…I'll never change. Somehow, in some way, I'll always be the person I was when I was 9. That's what Cecil says, anyway. Apparently, I'm too naïve to be 32. My grin and my eyes and my behaviour and just everything about me screams so. And I act foolish. A cute little idiot, someone once told me. A cute little idiot.  
  
"Am I an idiot? Well…yes and no. I've made idiotic decisions in my life, but I'm not stupid. Not that I'm being boastful here, but I know I'm far above average intelligence. But when it comes to decisions…well, I can be a real stupid idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid idiot…I'm rambling now, I know. I do that a lot these days. I'm running out of things to say."  
  
The redheaded man paused, oceanic eyes focused on Bart's face as he traced the boy's jaw line.  
  
"I'd like to apologize to your Aunt Selma, too…but…I know, there is absolutely nothing that can possibly justify what I did to her. I betrayed her trust…I made a mockery of something that was supposed to be beautiful. You know, I didn't originally plan to do that? I really loved her…she…she reminded me of…of someone…"  
  
His voice tightened, and for some time, all he could do was watch Bart sleep.  
  
"It…it occurred to me…on the drive to the hotel. Mania once again. I don't know why I did it…I mean, I know why I said I did it…but…that was a lie. Because I honestly didn't know the real reason. Bart, I loved her. I still do…I think…I think…maybe…no, definitely…I always will. But…trying to kill her…sometimes, I think that's the worst crime I've ever committed, because I took advantage of her trust and her love.  
  
"But you know…I think I wanted someone to stop me. Somewhere, deep within my subconscious – my heart – I didn't want to blow up our room. I didn't want to kill her. Maybe that's why I sent our honeymoon tape to your family, because I knew you would notice what I was doing, and stop me. And I was right, wasn't I? You figured it all out and managed to stop me from killing Selma. Thank you. Thank you for stopping me…"  
  
Robert took a moment to observe the child asleep beside him, and a sad smile crept onto his face as his thumb moved over Bart's temple, massaging it. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin, circular pendant, roughly the size of a quarter, hanging on a wispy chain; held it up to the window, watching with some interest as the moonlight bounced off it.  
  
"It's been in my family for years," he said, his voice barely a whisper now. "My paternal grandmother's side of the family. Passed down from parent to eldest child. My father gave it to me when I was 7, right after…after…"  
  
For scant moments, he was silent; his body shook lightly as he continued, his voice moving with it.  
  
"After my mum…died…" He gripped the talisman in his hand, squeezing it as if for support. His breathing hitched, and for a few minutes, all he could do was sit there, face in hands, breathing sharply. When he finally forced some calm into himself, Robert wiped his face with his free hand, sniffling once.  
  
"Well. It…it's supposed…supposed to be some sort of…charm. An amulet, if you will. Protection, good luck…that sort of thing. I've only been able to make out some of the markings on it…rune, Chinese, Sanskrit, Greco-Roman, Egyptian, Hebrew…most of them I can't read. I can barely make out the ones I can, because they're so elaborately written. I think of the Chinese characters is "protection", but it's honestly so hard to tell…"  
  
He hesitated, then, as cautiously as he could, managed to slip the chain around Bart's neck without waking the boy.  
  
"You've been the closest thing to a child I've ever had, or will ever have, Bart. I want you to have it…maybe it will be able to serve you well…unlike it was able to do for me. For everything I've done to you, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…but…but there is…nothing. Nothing I can say, nothing I can do, nothing…absolutely nothing to reverse what I have done. I've become the person I've hated most throughout my life…well, a half-assed version, at least. Thankfully. You see, Bart, there was this man…this horrible man, who…who did something very similar to my family what I…attempted…to do to yours. Differences, of course, and do you know what the most prominent one was? For the most part…he was successful. He…he killed them…my mum…and…"  
  
He stopped abruptly, shaking once more; he bit his lip harshly, ignoring when he cut through the skin and blood pooled about his lips, staining them a colour comparable to that of his hair's.  
  
"I'm leaving, Bart," he managed to whisper hoarsely a few minutes later. "First thing tomorrow morning…my brother and I…we're leaving. Going back home. We'll be staying with our dad for a while…he lives in Ireland…I've caused enough pain here in the states. And I…I had to see you again. To give you the amulet. To tell you why. To apologize. But…I'm so sorry, Bart. I can't tell you everything…everything about…about my past…it…I…"  
  
He gave a sigh, sad and heavy, and reached into his pocket once more, this time pulling out a few pieces of paper, folded together into a small rectangular shape.  
  
"I'm leaving this under your lamp. I wrote down everything that I wanted to tell you…if and when you find it…I know you'll read it. I just hope you'll be able to understand it. Not just the handwriting, though it is rather messy…no, no, the content. What I wrote down…my life story, in a medium- sized nutshell. And a rather lengthy apology towards the end…not that this isn't."  
  
Robert took a moment to just sit there, right hand still running absentmindedly through Bart's hair, which glimmered like mellow quicksilver in the path of moonbeams.  
  
"I…I just probably go now. Got to finish packing, maybe get some sleep for the long flight. I wish I could watch you grow up, Bart, I really wish I could. Maybe…no. No, I can't…I won't be coming back. Because I…I'm…I'm insane…God, but it hurts. When I was eight, I realized it. I have rapid- cycling Bipolar Disorder, and it's going to stay with me till the day I die, which has a good chance of being by my own hand. No matter what kind or how much treatment I undergo – medication, therapy…the mental hospital – it will never leave me alone. I'm legally insane – I don't even trust myself to drive. Too afraid that I'll do something stupid and end up crashing into something, or someone…damn it, I'm rambling again."  
  
He sighed, the breath of air causing the garnet-red droplets on his lips to quaver. Finally noticing the moisture, he licked around his mouth, cleaning away the drying blood and tasting cool, liquid copper on his tongue.  
  
He leaned down towards the boy, cautiously wrapping the sleeping body in a gentle hug, the papers still tucked in his grasp.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Bart…" he whispered before pressing a kiss to the child's temple. He stood up slowly, the mattress readjusting for the sudden lack of weight. He lifted up the lamp on Bart's bedside table and placed the note underneath it, so that a tiny corner showed to anyone who happened to glance at it. He then smoothed out the covers, making sure they covered the boy; and then, with the saddest of smiles upon his face, he gave one last fleeting look to the sleeping child, and disappeared out the window.  
  
Baby blue ice emerged from its cover of darkness, and Bart Simpson sat up in his bed, his gaze still fixed on his window. His fingers went to his upper chest and found the cool metal, wired with inscriptions; for scant moments, fingertips ran over the amulet, tracing the lines as if trying to commit them all to memory. Finally, he reached over to the note underneath the base of his blue lamp and carefully removed it from its hiding place; with a click, a soft, yellow glow lit up a small area of his bedroom as his curious eyes traveled over the now unfolded papers, taking in every bit of ink and registering the dark splashes of tears and blood that dotted every page. 


	2. Like a Child

"Rob?"  
  
Cecil Terwilliger watched through circular, black-framed glasses as his brother slowly turned his attention from the window and to him.  
  
"Hm?" came the reply, heavy and just slightly curious.  
  
"Are you okay? You've been melancholy all morning."  
  
"Mm? No, no, I'm fine," the redhead murmured, turning back to the window and resting his forehead on the cool glass. "Just a little tired, I guess."  
  
"You're mumbling," Cecil pointed out, his voice sterner. "You're not acting like you're 'just a little tired'. What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing!" Robert's voice rose a little, aggravation seeping through in small tendrils, and he turned back around to glare at the younger man. "I'm tired, Cecil – I was up all night packing. Can't a man be worn out?"  
  
"I told you to pack on Tuesday, but no, you had to wait until the last minute. Honestly…"  
  
Robert grinned at this good-natured chastisement.  
  
"Is that why I can't be tired? 'cause it's my own fault?" He allowed a boyish grin to light up his face just the slightest bit.  
  
"Damn straight."  
  
Robert gave a soft laugh before turning back to the window, aquamarine gaze sweeping over the rapidly moving scenery.  
  
Had Cecil been a less serious person, he too would have smiled, maybe laughed – but, being the kind of person that he was, he merely allowed a corner of his mouth to twitch upwards for scant moments, then returned to his usual emotion-free face.  
  
For a long while, the car drove onward in silence, save for a solitary sneeze from Robert at one point, and the polite, "Thanks," when Cecil handed him a handkerchief. When someone spoke again, it was Robert; his voice, softer than usual, made it almost impossible to catch.  
  
"Cecil?"  
  
"Yes?" Violet eyes still focused on the road, the bespectacled man nodded to show that he was listening.  
  
"I…I…" Sigh. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Sorry for what? I can't read minds, Rob. I believe that gift goes to you." The hazel-haired man glanced at his brother, confusion and irritation beginning to dawn on his face.  
  
"For everything. I…I've been a horrible big brother…God, but you look like Mum."  
  
Robert watched as the other's body suddenly stiffened, hands tightening on the steering wheel.  
  
"Robert…" he hissed, a warning.  
  
"Oh God, Cecil," Robert suddenly cried. "I, I know…I couldn't…I just couldn't protect you…!"  
  
"I don't need protecting, Robert." Cecil's voice was suddenly cold, just daring Robert to take the matter any further.  
  
"Yes you do!" the redhead thundered back. "I…I'm your big brother! And you know what? I've always, always wanted to protect you and Ellen!"  
  
"Ro-"  
  
"From the moment I knew of your existence, I've always wanted to protect you! Because that's what big brothers do! That's what they do, and I couldn't!! I coul-"  
  
"Shut up!" Cecil ordered, his gaze still fixed on the road. "Just shut up!"  
  
"No, I won't!! Don't…don't you understand, Cecil?! Don't you understand what it's like to know that you failed everyone?! Well?!"  
  
"Just shut the fuck up."  
  
"Why don't you want to hear this?! It's not your fault!! None of it is, Cecil, none of it!! I failed you!! I failed you!!" His voice cracked then. "I failed everyone…oh God, Cecil, do you know what I've done…"  
  
Cecil chanced a look at his brother, and the annoyed fury he had felt just seconds ago seemed to dissipate. It was so hard to be angry with Robert when he sat just feet away, noiseless tears soaking his flushed face, aquamarine orbs full of sorrow and anguish and a deep self-loathing staring at the floor; despite his size, he looked tiny and small and so very helpless. He looked like a child.  
  
Like a child…  
  
"Robert…" Cecil began, but couldn't seem to find the words he wanted. "It's…not your fault…"  
  
"Yes it is," came the almost-sob. "It is! It's all my damn fault!!"  
  
"No, it-"  
  
"It's all my fault!!" Robert shouted, turning to face his brother. "Don't try and tell my that it's not, because it is!!! Everything is!!! EVERYTHING IS!!!!"  
  
He covered his face in his hands as sobs began to ravage his thin body.  
  
"E, everything…" he managed to half-whisper, voice weak. "Ba, Bart…Selma…L…Lee…moth, mother…Ellen…it's all…all my fault. All my fault. All my fault…"  
  
Cecil was still, able only to watch as his older brother broke down, mind and sense and thought crumbling away from all around the redhaired man.  
  
He didn't know what to do. This had never happened before; Robert had always been so good at biting the bullet that Cecil had never once thought that he may be full of all this…this self-hatred.  
  
Cecil knew that he was horrible at sensitive things. He was just not that comforting; he gave off a cold, uncaring feeling, he knew that. He was calmer than most people, able to keep his emotions very much at check; they were distractions that clouded the mind. But even he couldn't ignore the quivering mass of jumbled feeling and thought sitting beside him, confused and hurt and vulnerable.  
  
But he could do nothing; after all, what was there to do? It seemed like Robert was just venting, getting it all out of his system. Cecil could get up and leave, and his brother wouldn't even notice.  
  
Everything he knew pointed to just letting his brother ride this out, let him finish; offer him a handkerchief to wipe his face with, blow his nose; and then, never mention any of this ever again. Save both of their prides.  
  
And so, Cecil sat and waited. 


	3. Maybe He's Still Crazy

"Now, Bart, are you sure ab-"  
  
"Mo~m!" the ten-year-old shouted. "For the last time, yes! I'm sure!"  
  
Marge twisted around in her seat belt so as to face her son, who was at the moment scowling in the back.  
  
"But, Bart, sweetie, have you even stopped to think about all this?"  
  
"I've had all night to think about it," Bart answered through clenched teeth. He loved his mother, and he knew that she was only trying to protect him, but really, this was going too far.  
  
"Mom," Lisa spoke up, leaning over the back seat to place a hand on Marge's shoulder, "I know that this is all so very sudden...I'm just as shocked by all this as you are. But...we have to trust Bart. I mean, who else in this car can honestly say that they know Bob any better than Bart does?"  
  
"I can," can a low, husky voice. "At least, I thought I could...I don't know. He never...never told me any of this..."  
  
Selma wrapped her arms around herself as if cold, rubbing hands against the upper limbs. She turned her head to stare out the window with eyes of light grey mist staring out into nothing.  
  
"Selma..." Marge murmured, reaching her arm back to pet her older sister's arm.  
  
"It's okay, Marge," the woman murmured, eyes still focused on the window. "I'm not angry or anything...but...I do wish he had told me he was...he was Bipolar." She tightened her arms. "I wouldn't have stopped loving him...I wouldn't've..."  
  
"Don't cr-"  
  
"I'm not crying. I...I..." There was a loud thud. "God damn you, Robert Terwilliger! Why couldn't you trust me!"  
  
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Homer grumbled, which earned a good elbowing from his wife. "Ow! Let me finish, Marge."  
  
"You aren't helping!" she hissed in his ear.  
  
"Well, come on!" Homer returned loudly. "Half his family died, and he thought it was all his fault! Came you blame the guy for not wanting to lose another person?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, honestly, Marge, it was plain as day! Somewhere deep in his heart, he wanted to separate from Selma without her thinking it was her fault `cause he didn't want her to get killed or something." His tone, one used when explaining something so very simplistic, and his words were enough to shock the rest of the family into silence.  
  
"At least, that's what I think," he continued. "It could be the whole not-trusting-Selma thing. Maybe he's still crazy."  
  
"The term is manic-depressive, Dad, not crazy," Lisa corrected, having just now found her voice.  
  
"Whatever."  
  
"And the letter said he was on medication. 35 milligrams of Lithium."  
  
"All right, all right, he's not crazy! Drop it!" Selma ordered, voice sharp and angry. "Just...shut up. All of you. I need to think, and I can't with all your talk. So just keep your mouths shut."  
  
There was an uneasy quiet for a while, interrupted only by the rustling of cloth when Bart reached into his right pocket and pulled out a few pieces of paper closed together.  
  
"Can I see that, Bart?" Selma asked, her voice so quiet that it melded into the silence of the car.  
  
The boy nodded, handing over the letter; he watched as his aunt opened and read the messy handwriting, over and over and over.  
  
"It really is a beautiful pendant," she murmured at one point. Bart's fingers flew up to his neck, curling around the amulet as if trying to absorb it. "You know..." her voice trailed off.  
  
"There's the aeroport," Patty suddenly announced. She glanced at her wristwatch. "We've got a couple of hours to find Bob."  
  
"Robert."  
  
"Hm?" Patty looked over at her twin. "What'd you say?"  
  
"Robert," Selma repeated. "He prefers to be called Robert. Or Rob. Anything besides Bob, he once told me..."  
  
"Then we've got a couple of hours to find Robert. Happy?" Patty gave a good-natured scowl.  
  
Selma didn't answer. 


	4. I Heard Everything

"Have you got your luggage?"  
  
Robert nodded towards a pair of grey suitcases in response, not looking at the speaker.  
  
"All right then, I guess we're good to go…the gate's that way, Rob. Come on."  
  
Cecil pointed in the correct direction they should be walking down and began his journey, turning back to see if his brother was following him.  
  
"Just follow me, Rob…you always did have a bad sense of direction," he murmured. Robert looked sheepish at the comment, but picked up his suitcases and started off after the younger man.  
  
"Wait!"  
  
Robert paused and looked behind him at the shout; there stood a young boy, silvery-blonde hair in disarray, stooped over slightly to gather his breath.  
  
"Bart?" The redhead stared at the boy, incredulous. "Wh…what are you…"  
  
"I know!" the boy interrupted. "I know everything! Last night…last night, I was awake! Awake the whole time!"  
  
"…what?"  
  
"I heard everything! And…and I read your letter…you can't go! You can't!"  
  
"Rob?"  
  
Cecil appeared at his brother's side, looking back and forth between Bart and Robert.  
  
"Rob? What's going on?"  
  
Robert didn't answer, instead fixing his gaze upon the boy before him.  
  
"Please…!" Bart ran up to the man, throwing arms around the lithe waist and clasping tightly. "Don't go! It…it's not your fault…" his voice, muffled by Robert's chest, so desperate and pleading…  
  
"Bart…" Robert managed to gently remove the boy's arms; he knelt down to eye level, hands upon Bart's shoulders. "I…I have to go."  
  
"Bu-"  
  
Robert put a finger to the child's lips, shaking his head.  
  
"No, listen, Bart. Everything I said…everything…it's all true. This is for your own good…for Selma's own good…for everyone's own good."  
  
"No it's not!"  
  
"Sh, sh…please, let me finish."  
  
Cecil glanced over at the gathering people – the boy's family, he guessed. Sighing, he set his bags down and walked over to them, all the while wondering just what to say.  
  
"Are you…Cecil?" the blue-haired woman asked, hesitant.  
  
"Yes, ma'am. May I presume you to be Mrs Simpson?"  
  
Marge gave a curt nod. "My son-"  
  
"Rob and Bart are having a discussion," Cecil interrupted, motioning behind him. "Apparently, Bart doesn't want us to leave. He seems quite intent on it, too."  
  
"We all are," came a gravelly voice, and Selma appeared at the front of the group.  
  
Cecil pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, looking the woman over.  
  
"So. This is the famous Selma I've heard so much about. It's nice to finally meet you, ma'am."  
  
"He…he talks about me?" Selma clutched her left hand.  
  
"Among things, yes."  
  
"Er…" Marge looked a little embarrassed, but continued as the bespectacled man fixed his cold gaze on her. "Cecil…you tried to kill Bart once, didn't you? And B…and Robert?"  
  
Lisa looked away, turning slightly red in the face; Cecil, however, didn't flinch.  
  
"That…I remember that," he murmured. "So sorry about that. Just a little…a little crazy, I suppose."  
  
"Well…your stepmother-" Marge was stopped abruptly by the sharpness Cecil's violet eyes took.  
  
"-is dead, and there's nothing we can do about it, can we?" His voice cut smoothly into the group, slicing at what his gaze hadn't.  
  
"I just-"  
  
"That was over a year ago, ma'am. There's no point in bringing it back up."  
  
Marge's light green eyes fell upon what they had missed before – a black band, its dark colour bleeding through Cecil's left grey shirtsleeve. She immediately looked over at Robert, but his left arm was hidden by her son's body.  
  
Cecil followed her gaze, and his features softened their cold grip.  
  
"You can't see it, but Rob's wearing one, too. It's under his sleeve…" his voice trailed off, and for a few minutes, everyone stood there, watching Robert and Bart.  
  
"You two miss her so very much, don't you?" It was Lisa who tentatively broke the silence. "To still be wearing your armbands…"  
  
"Lisa," Cecil's gaze didn't divert from the pair yards away, "my brother and I have worn black armbands our entire lives." 


	5. Bloodstains from the Past

"We don't want you to go," Bart protested.  
  
"Bart, please. I know I didn't explain it very well in the letter, so-"  
  
"You don't have to explain anything!" Bart nearly shouted.  
  
"Yes, I do. Please, Bart, let me explain."  
  
"But…but if you stay…"  
  
"I can't, Bart."  
  
"If you stay, then you don't have to explain…"  
  
"Bart." Robert tightened his grip on the child's shoulder. "I can't stay. It's not safe for you, or Selma…it's not safe for anyone."  
  
"Why?! Why isn't it safe?!" Bart's jaw clenched, and his eyes shone with a sudden fire. "Because you're bipolar?! What about that medicine you've been taking!"  
  
"It…it's not my disorder I'm worried about…"  
  
"Then what?! What is it that you're worried about?!" Bart was looking almost furious now. "Huh?! What is it?!!"  
  
"Him."  
  
Robert's sea-green gaze fell upon his left arm, and Bart felt the anger in him lessen some as it gave way to curiosity.  
  
"What's that?" He pointed at the dark band underneath Robert's shirtsleeve.  
  
"He…he killed her…"  
  
"Her…your stepmother?" Now Bart was getting concerned. "He killed your stepmother?"  
  
Robert didn't answer, instead choosing to stare at the boy's face, sadness in his eyes.  
  
"That guy who ruined your life?"  
  
The red haired man closed his eyes, his brow furrowing; he suddenly lunged forward and entrapped the child before him in a tight hug.  
  
"I…I won't…I won't let him hurt you…" he managed to choke out. "I won't! I won't! That's why I have to leave, Bart…that…that's why…"  
  
"Wha…"  
  
Robert pulled away, holding Bart's face in his hands. A melancholy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, making his tear-stained face look even more heart wrenching.  
  
"If I stay," he continued, his voice hitching. "If I stay…he…he'll kill you. All of you. Like he killed…killed my…my mum…and Lee…and…and my stepmum…"  
  
"Got halfa Sicily after me now. Damn wops."  
  
Robert faintly registered his brother's angered scream from afar as a heavy fist was slammed into his chest, sending him backwards into the air.  
  
"Bart, get away from him!" Cecil shouted. "Now!!"  
  
"Aw, is ickle Cecil gonna shoot me?" A man, tall, with greying-brown hair and soft blue eyes, snickered at this. His voice was gruff, accented with Irish. "Ickle bounty hunter Cecil? Where's yer gun, little bounty hunter? Didn't yeh swear t' take me down, all those years ago?"  
  
Cecil showed no sign of emotion, though his eyes flickered over to Bart.  
  
"Run!!" he shouted. "Why are you just standing there?!!"  
  
The silvery-blonde haired child seemed to come to his senses; he made a move to run, but in a matter of seconds, the Irishman was in front of him, grinning for all the world to see.  
  
"Don't…don't touch him…" Robert panted as he lifted himself up, his hand clutching at his chest.  
  
"Havin' some trouble breathin', Robbikins?" Sneer. "Weak. All it took was a little hit to th' stern'm, an' already yer as vulner'ble as a newborn kitt'n."  
  
He turned his attention back to the boy, and a smile lit up his face.  
  
"Ah'll've fun killin' yeh, I c'n tell," he said joyfully, ruffling Bart's hair in an almost affectionate manner.  
  
A crowd had began to form when Patrick Kincaid O'Connor fisted Robert some 15 feet into a wall, and with this new declaration of murder, along with the production of a sleek, shining old gun, panic went on the rise. People went running, screaming all over the aeroport, a few staring in horror for brief moments before also fleeing in terror from the Irish madman.  
  
It got worse when he pulled a knife from his pocket as well.  
  
"This 'ere gal's seen 'er share o' victories," he announced in an almost nostalgic manner, holding the blade up to the light; rays bounced off it, duller in certain areas, showing where bloodstains from the past had refused to disappear.  
  
Robert saw this as an opportunity to move in; though, with a sudden downward swipe from O'Connor, he fell back, barely managing to stay on his feet. His right hand immediately flew to his chest once more, this time pressing into it, trying in vain to suppress the quickly moving dark liquid seeping through his shirt, dripping over his fingers, splattering onto the carpet.  
  
"Bad boy, Robbie," O'Connor chastised, shaking his head and tutting. "Yeh shoulda stayed back. Ah've got enough o' yer blood on me knife – most o' these stains a' yers. Yeh tryin' t' cover th' entire blade, boy?"  
  
Robert didn't answer, instead choosing to gasp for his breath, staring at the man before him with hatred in his eyes. O'Connor smirked as he drew his knife hand up, and brought down the blade once more, striking deeply across Robert's left arm and chest.  
  
Selma shrieked, but caught neither man's attention.  
  
"No' even a whimper, Robbikins?" O'Connor cocked his head. "Maybe yeh'll scream when Ah shove this here blood inna yer 'art. Yer weak, p'thetic, broken 'art."  
  
The older man grabbed Robert by the throat, dug his fingers in.  
  
"S'no' even yer 'art, though, is 't? Nah, 'ts summun else's 'art. Ah oughta know; after all, Ah sw'tched 'em, dinnit Ah?"  
  
"Freeze, O'Connor."  
  
All eyes turned to Cecil, who now held a gun in his steady hands, aimed for the oldest man's head. In the distance, a security officer searched for his firearm.  
  
"Now wh-"  
  
BLAM.  
  
Though not quickly enough to escape injury, O'Connor managed to raise his arm up and jump back just enough to only be grazed in the shoulder. He threw Robert to the ground and narrowed his eyes at Cecil, who had already readjusted the gun's aim.  
  
"When I said freeze, I meant your mouth muscles as well. I'm aiming to kill, O'Connor, not injure. I don't aim to injure. Not with you."  
  
"Yeh little shite!"  
  
BLAM.  
  
He managed to duck it this time, and immediately retaliated; Cecil blocked the bullet with his weapon easily.  
  
"Too slow," he muttered, aiming again. "Now freeze, God damn it. Don't you know when to quit?"  
  
The older man smirked, and fired once more, this time aiming lower; the bullet hit the desired target, and a gun clattered to the ground as Cecil grasped at his right hand.  
  
"Nice, O'Connor," Cecil said through gritted teeth. "Knocked the gun out of my hand, and even managed to stun me from the impact. I don't think I can move my bloody hand now."  
  
O'Connor regarded the man with suspicion.  
  
"Yer upta sumthin…" he murmured.  
  
"Me? No, no, of course I'm not. See? No gun. You shot it out yourself, Dr O'Connor." He smirked. "Are you getting senile in your old age, Dr O'Connor? Losing your memory a little? Do you remember who I am, Dr O'Connor?"  
  
Cecil laughed, cruel, barking, frightening.  
  
"Yeh wi – OI!!"  
  
In a blur, O'Connor found himself without a gun; he gave Cecil one last glance – the man was smirking most intolerably – before turning his attention in the direction of his weapon's new master.  
  
"Bart…get back…now…"  
  
A little startled by all this, the boy nodded quietly, stepping back. He was soon yanked forward, however, by the terrorist, who now held Bart in an iron grip.  
  
"Let go of me!" he snarled, throwing himself backwards; he managed to catch O'Connor off-guard, and reached back behind him.  
  
"Got fight in yeh, doncha, lad?" O'Connor grinned at the child.  
  
"Got a gun, too."  
  
With shaking hands, Bart rested the muzzle on the Irishman's temple, finger resting upon the trigger.  
  
"Bart, no!" his mother shouted, but Bart wasn't listening.  
  
"A' yeh gonna kill me, lad?" O'Connor asked quietly, staring into the child's eyes. "A' yeh gonna pull tha' there trigg'r and blow me brains out, lad? Spill me blood all ov'r yer pretty little hands?"  
  
Bart's hands trembled some more, but began to tug at the trigger.  
  
"It's too bad, really. Ah was savin' yeh fer last. Have me a little fun, yeh unnerstand. But…"  
  
His left hand – the one with the knife – suddenly charged forward, towards Bart's body. The boy's fingers began to pull the trigger in uncertain earnest-  
  
BLAM.  
  
O'Connor jerked, froze; fell over backwards, in a slowly growing puddle of blood. His blood. His own blood.  
  
Above him, Robert stood panting, smoke rising out of the barrel of his gun. He had been so close – a sticky, ruby liquid clung to him, splattered in droplets and smears across his face, chest, arms, hands…  
  
For long moments, no one moved; Robert himself could only stare grimly at the body in front of him, lying still upon the ground. Blood trickled out of its mouth.  
  
"Robbie!!"  
  
He was suddenly aware of someone, someone hugging him, holding him, kissing him, telling him…telling him, it was all right now…everything will be all right…  
  
"Oh…oh God…"  
  
Realization finally dawned upon him like a sharp slap to the face; Robert's hands, trembling now, dropped the gun, which hit the ground with a hollow clang.  
  
"I…I ki…I killed…somebody…" he whispered, voice soft and cracking as his knees wobbled and gave way, sinking him to the floor. "I killed somebody…I killed somebody…"  
  
"It's okay, Robbie, it's okay…everything will be all right…"  
  
The redhead looked over at the woman embracing him; with a shaky hand, he reached out to touch her face, brushing his blood-speckled fingers across her cheek, smearing the fluid across her features.  
  
"Oh God…"  
  
He fell against her, sobbing like mad, hands falling limply at his side, fisting and unfisting themselves.  
  
Selma immediately wrapped her arms across his shaking back, slowly rubbing back and forth; she leaned her head down, pressing her face into his wild hair.  
  
"I d…I did…I didn't mean…"  
  
"Sh…" Selma whispered. She lifted his head up, cupped his face in her hands; searched his teary eyes with her own grey ones as she wiped specks of blood away from his cheeks, forehead, nose, temples; she hesitated for a moment, then, leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on Robert's lips.  
  
"I love you," she whispered, the only sound to reach Robert's mind amidst the sirens and yells from all around.  
  
Selma pulled the man closer to her, tightening her hold on him.  
  
"Cry. Let it all out, Robbie, let it all out. Cry, weep, sob, I don't care. I'm here for you. We're here for you. So cry. Just…cry." 


	6. Burns My Skin

"The stitches should dissolve in about three weeks or so. In the meantime, I suggest not doing anything that could possibly ruin them – you know, get them wet, get them ripped, get them dissolved too early, get them burned-"  
  
"In short, destroy them completely," Cecil interrupted, his voice flat.  
  
"Or partially destroyed, yes. Or harmed in the slightest way. Or-"  
  
"Is there anything else we should know, Dr Lavin?" Cecil narrowed his violet eyes at the man.  
  
The blue-haired doctor looked at his clipboard.  
  
"Er…" He looked up at the group awaiting his response. "Well…we'd rather like to keep Robert here for the night."  
  
"What!" Bart frowned, folding his arms over his chest. "I thought he was coming home with us!"  
  
"Well, your uncle lost a large amount of blood, and those gashes on his chest were rather close to his heart. And especially with his disease…"  
  
"What does Bipolar Disorder have to do with any other this?" Lisa asked, as thoroughly confused as the rest of her family.  
  
"No, not his Bipolar Disorder, his-" Realization filled Cecil's face like water over dusty plains. He looked over at his brother, shock and anger in his facer. "You didn't tell them?!!" he demanded, his voice raising with every syllable.  
  
"Well…"  
  
"How could you not tell them!!! Didn't you marry one of them?!! Are you even wearing your bracelet?!!?!"  
  
"I…"  
  
"Robert, you certified idiot!!!!" Cecil was a light reddish-purple now.  
  
"Sir, if you could just please calm down, after all, this is a hospital…" Dr Lavin requested, looking worried at the other man's rage.  
  
"There's something else you haven't told us?" Selma continued for Cecil, appearing in front of Robert.  
  
"Um…" The redhead looked ashamed, watching the floor intently.  
  
"What is it this time, schizophrenia?? Cancer?! Hemophilia?!! Tell me, Robert!!" she charged, her eyes narrowed to slits.  
  
"Be quiet, all of you!" Dr Rhett Lavin suddenly shouted, getting everyone's, save for Robert, silent attention.  
  
Dr Lavin took a deep breath.  
  
"That's better. Now…could you all go out into the hall? Leave me with Robert and Selma, please, just for a few moments. I need to have a little talk with these two."  
  
The group was silent, a little off-set from the British man's outburst, but did as they were told. Dr Lavin watched as Bart exited, then shut the door firmly.  
  
"Robert," he began, pulling a chair up to the bedside upon which Robert sat, motioning for Selma to do the same. "I need to ask about something."  
  
"Sure." Downcast, robotic. Robert's gaze hadn't left the white tiles.  
  
"When my sister, Lisa, and I were examining your arm and chest, Robert, we couldn't help but notice that you have a lot of scars. A lot."  
  
Robert said nothing.  
  
"Robert…Robert, look at me." The man complied. "Robert…do you cut yourself?"  
  
For a moment, Robert's oceanic eyes went lost before turning into blazing fires.  
  
"Of course not!" he fervently exclaimed. "I was a very rowdy child – I was always getting scrapes and cuts and whatnot!!"  
  
"What kind of question is that?" Selma demanded, glaring at the doctor. "Lots of things cause scars! Why would you-"  
  
"Mrs Terwilliger, please," Dr Lavin interrupted, moving over to Robert. "Let me just show you these scars…"  
  
He pulled the sleeve of Robert's left arm up to the shoulder, exposing thousands upon thousands of scars, both old and new; some were jagged, some were straight, some were short, some were long; a line of black markings sliced through the middles of many of the scars.  
  
"And the other arm…and the torso…can you remove your shirt, please? Thank you…there are more on the legs…there are even some on the neck and back. A few on the face, too, if you look closely enough."  
  
Selma was silent, pursing her lips as she looked over the man she loved.  
  
"Now, my sister and I have studied this sort of thing – self-mutilation – for a while, and we've seen some pretty bad cases…your husband, however, takes the cake, beats it to a fine pulp, breaks it down to its fine molecules and atoms and then throws them into the core of the local nuclear power plant.  
  
"Lisa and I know what kind of scars are accidents and what kinds are on purpose. Almost all of these are undeniably on purpose. The sheer amount alone told us that much.  
  
"Now, at first, we were skeptical, of course…especially since there were straight, deep, well-cut scars on both the left and the right arms. Most people are dextrous – that is, right-handed – and so, and cuts to that arm would have been shaky and light. Same would be true if your husband were sinistrous, left-handed – the left arm wouldn't be as marked. So we wondered if Robert was one of the rare people who are ambidextrous, they can use both hands. Naturally, we checked his medical records…sure enough, Robert can use both hands with ease."  
  
An uneasy quiet befell the room as Selma, tight-lipped, stared at Robert, eyes dancing over his bare chest and arms, the almost-white lines and curves and patches of skin and occasional black thread that marred his otherwise pale complexion.  
  
"I'll, ah, just leave you two be, let you, ah, talk things over," Dr Lavin announced, leaving the room and softly shutting the door behind him.  
  
For a few seconds, all the couple could do was watch each other; finally, Selma sat down on the bed next to Robert and reached out to touch him. Her fingers found scars on either arm and began to follow them upward, as if trying to connect them to all the other markings.  
  
Robert said nothing as ancient memories were fingered lightly, sending a line of twinges and tremors throughout his body that led to the left side of his chest, where Selma's fingers stopped at a fairly thick scar, tiny lines pulling at the sides.  
  
Her right hand was suddenly covered by Robert's left, her palm pressed against the scar.  
  
"That's where they cut me open," he said, almost a whisper. "They cut me open, and took out my heart. Thrice." He held up his thumb and first two fingers of his free hand. "When I was a newborn. When I was seven. And when I was twenty-two.  
  
"I was born with a weak heart, Selma. Coronary artery disease. I take medication for it…so many medications for it…but…" He pressed her right hand into his heart a little more. "None of them has ever replaced the fact that I don't have my own heart. These hearts that have been keeping me alive all these years…all from other people, dead people. A dead baby, a dead child, a dead adult…they aren't my hearts, Selma. Do you understand? I've only had my own heart for a few hours. I have a Medicaid bracelet in my pocket, but I can't wear it…it's like being branded, it burns my skin. I feel fake, I feel like I should be dead. My true heart is; why aren't I? Why aren't I?"  
  
They stared into each other's eyes for minutes, searching the other's for answers.  
  
"Selma…" Robert murmured, removing his right hand to trace Selma's jaw line. "God, but you're beautiful…"  
  
He leaned down and hesitantly pressed his lips against hers, as if afraid of her response.  
  
Selma removed her right hand from Robert's heart and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her to deepen the kiss.  
  
Robert made a muffled noise of surprise at this, but didn't pull away; he moved his hands so that they clasped around Selma's back, and shyly began to kiss back with the same intensity as she was.  
  
Abruptly, he broke it off, and for moments all they could do was watch each other, both of them panting slightly.  
  
"I'm sorry," they both said in unison.  
  
"Robbie, I shouldn't've blown up at you-"  
  
"Selma, I shouldn't've kept my disease a secret-"  
  
"-but it just angers me that you were still keeping stuff like that a secret-"  
  
"-but it would've just made you worry, and it makes me feel so weak-"  
  
They stopped, still gazing at each other. Selma cracked a smile, and Robert pulled her closer to him so that their foreheads were touching.  
  
"I love you," he whispered, his cheeks tinting red.  
  
"And I love you," Selma returned, smile widening at the slight blush on Robert's face. "Which means…you don't have to leave. You can stay right here with me, forever."  
  
She reached to hold his right hand, but he jerked it behind him.  
  
Selma frowned. "Robbie…"  
  
"Don't," he half-whispered. "Don't hold my right hand…"  
  
"Why not?" She grabbed at it, pulling it towards her face. Her frown deepened. "Your hand…"  
  
"That one's not mine," he said, his voice soft.  
  
A pale scar, faint but deep sliced neatly across the three main lines of Robert's palm.  
  
"What happened?" Selma ran a finger down the mark.  
  
The redhead looked away.  
  
"Robbie?"  
  
Ocean green met lunar grey, and Robert removed his hand, pressing it against his heart scar.  
  
"When I was seven…after my mum was…was killed…I had to go to the hospital. I never really elaborated on her death, did I? Well…it was my birthday, my seventh birthday, and we were at the lake. My mum decided to go row boating with me, just the two of us. We were close, so alike.  
  
"Then…then he arrived. O'Connor. Suddenly, he was at the boat…he…he had a gun…"  
  
His eyes stung, but Robert refused to blink, refused to let the tears free.  
  
"He shot her, my mum. He shot her, and he laughed…and…"  
  
Robert stopped for a few moments, body shaking. When he spoke again, his voice was tight, stretched.  
  
"I vaguely remember…remember the screams, the yelling…the laughter…I fell back, I think. I went under the water, and someone was holding, and…and I was drowning…in…drowning in…in my mother's blood…it was everywhere…"  
  
Selma grimaced, but said nothing.  
  
"Then…then I was in the hospital. My heart was failing, and they had to perform…perform another operation…and he was there. Him. No one…no one knew, knew it was he who killed my mother. He was just the pediatrician. My pediatrician. No one…  
  
"He told me was going to kill me, he was going to sever my head, heart, and life lines. He had a knife…that same knife…always the same knife…"  
  
He fell silent, hand clutching at his heart.  
  
"My dad came in then…but it was too late. He had already cut me. Killed me. He killed me, Selma…"  
  
"Robbie, don't say that…" Selma almost whispered, pulling Robert's hand away from his chest.  
  
He snatched his arm away, holding it to his scar again.  
  
"Don't…" he breathed. "Please, no. Don't look at it…don't. It's tainted. I'm tainted…don't look at me…"  
  
"Stop saying such things!" Selma screamed, gripping the tall man by the shoulders. "You aren't tainted, you aren't tainted! Stop it, stop it, stop it!!"  
  
"Don't-"  
  
"No!" She grabbed the sides of his face, forcing him to look at her. "I don't care, Robbie! I don't care!"  
  
"Se-"  
  
"No, listen!" Robert bit hard at his lower lip with his canines, long and sharp. "Robbie – I don't care that you've killed someone. I don't care that you have heart or mental problems or any kind of problems! I don't care that you've cut yourself, or that you've had a madman after you, or that you've been in jail, or any of that! I don't care that you've attempted suicide!" She held up his wrists, showing him the scars marring each. "All I care about is you! I love you, Robbie, and that's all that matters! I love you, I love you, I love you!! I love you!!!"  
  
Robert stared at her, eyes wide, as she panted for breath. He opened his mouth a few times, as if to speak, but no words emerged; and so he reached forward and pulled Selma to him in a tight hug.  
  
"Selma…" he whispered after some time had passed, tightening his hold on her. "I love you…"  
  
Selma pulled away, cradling his face in her hands. Warm, wet skin her fingers touched, and she leaned up, pressing her lips to the sources of the salty liquid.  
  
"I'm here," she told him. "I'm here, and you're here. You're staying here…you aren't leaving. I won't allow it." She planted a peck on the redhead's lips. "We'll renew our vows, and find an apartment just for the two of us, and live happily ever after." She kissed him again. "That sound like a good plan to you?"  
  
She interlaced their left hands together.  
  
"You…you're still wearing the ring?" Robert asked, looking at her fingers.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Robert suddenly burst out in a wide grin, and reached into his pocket.  
  
"I have mine on a chain necklace," he said quietly, still grinning. "I took it off for the examination."  
  
He watched the golden band for moments, eyes glazing over pensively; with a sudden snap back into reality and a decisive nod, he removed the ring from the chain and slipped it over his left ring finger.  
  
Slowly, he looked back up into Selma's eyes. His grin softened into a gentle smile as he reached out, pulling the woman into a tight embrace.  
  
"I'd die for you…" he whispered into her hair, not loud enough to be heard. "Just for you…"  
  
"Hm?" Selma lifted her head up. "You say something, Robbie?"  
  
Robert closed his eyes momentarily. "Nothing, luv. Nothing." He pulled her in closer.  
  
With a content sigh, Selma leaned against, melting in his arms. "I love you, Robbie," she murmured almost sleepily.  
  
"And I love you." He rained a kiss to her light hair, resting against her. "Don't ever leave me…" 


	7. Errant Tears

A sharp wind cut through the cotton jacket, and Selma Terwilliger shivered, pulling the garment tighter around her. Noticing this, her husband drew her to him, wrapping Selma in a warm hug.  
  
"You can wait in the car, if you want," Robert said quietly. "I won't take a moment."  
  
"No, no, I'm fine," Selma assured him. The Irish winter swirling about them didn't seem so harsh when Robert was holding her…  
  
Nodding, Robert disconnected and took her right hand in his left. Selma looked about as Robert led her through the mass of crosses and curved slabs; the sky was a usual stormy grey, clouds an ever-threatening presence. As her eyes of moon swept over lush grass and forestry, Selma had to ask herself how anything grew if the sun never shone.  
  
Slowly, Robert calm to a stop; he fell to one knee then, aquamarine eyes scanning the large granite crucifix before him.  
  
"This is it," he told his wife. "This is his grave."  
  
Selma said nothing, choosing instead to move behind Robert and wrap her arms around his chest and neck.  
  
"Dr Patrick Kincaid O'Connor, born the 19th of October…died the 12th of November…beloved son, brother, and uncle…"  
  
Robert was silent for moments, just staring at the stone. Suddenly, without warning, he fell against it, body shaking with wild sobs.  
  
"I'm sorry…so sorry…" he managed to whisper. "Didn't mean to…"  
  
"Robert!" Selma practically hissed, pulling her husband away from the tombstone. "Robert, what are-"  
  
"Killer…"  
  
Mouth closing abruptly, Selma wrapped her arms around Robert's trembling frame to hold him close to her. Absently rubbing at his back, Selma made comforting shushing noises, rocking the red haired man gently.  
  
"Didn't…didn't mean to…" he managed to choke out. "Didn't…"  
  
"Sh, sh. I know, baby. I know," Selma whispered, grip tightening comfortingly. She pressed a kiss to unruly hair.  
  
Nodding, Robert gripped her jacket, burying his head in her shoulder. Selma smiled forlornly down at her love, then looked up to glare at the offending tombstone, as if her eyes could shatter it and the memories triggered.  
  
After a while, the naturally grey haired woman nudged her husband gently, causing him to look up at her. She closed the distance between them, placing a gentle kiss on his lips before pulling away and tugging on his left hand with her right, the other brushing away the errant tears on the gentle man's cheeks.  
  
"Come on, Robbie," she half-whispered. "Let's go back to the hotel. I think you've grieved more than enough for one lifetime. Besides…" She pulled him in again, kissing his neck this time. "…I'd rather prefer we weren't in a cold, harsh graveyard. Unless that's your thing."  
  
Selma smiled almost evilly against Robert's neck, feeling the heat that was now waving off his face.  
  
She gave a small yelp of surprise, however, when she was suddenly lifted off the ground in one swift motion; she clutched desperately at her husband's neck, and he chuckled lightly, shifting his arms somewhat so that Selma was in a comfortable sitting position in his hold.  
  
"Graveyards, eh?" Robert smiled, leaning forward so that their noses rubbed together in an Eskimo kiss. "No – I've seen more than enough of graveyards. They aren't my 'thing' – you are."  
  
Selma's grip around Robert's neck tightened then as she pulled him in for a real kiss, her fingers traveling upwards to tangle in his curly blood red hair.  
  
"Take me home, Robbie," Selma murmured as they separated.  
  
The redhead smiled and hugged his wife as he carried her out of the cemetery and towards the car, all the while whispering how much he loved her. 


End file.
